Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(78)

The BPD’s headquarters was a modern glass monstrosity that you either loved or hated. Either way, it wasn’t the dilapidated, leaky-pipe, stained, dropped-ceiling affair featured on so many cop shows. The homicide unit’s offices could’ve passed for an insurance company’s digs, with an expansive bank of windows, tasteful gray cubicles, and a blue sweep of commercial-grade carpet. Keeping with that theme, the department included several smaller rooms for private chats with families, quieter conversations between detectives.

Room six was really just that. A small room featuring a modest table, a couple of chairs. A viewing window that could be accessed from the hall. It was neither intimidating nor welcoming, which made it perfect for conversations like this: where D.D. was interviewing either a possible suspect or a fellow civil servant.

The inspector glanced up as D.D. opened the door. At first look, he was younger that D.D. would’ve thought. Close-cropped dark hair. Square jaw. Block shoulders. Big guy, the kind who would leave an impression on elderly landlords such as Mary and James Reichter. In his dark blue dress shirt, name embroidered in white thread on the left side, he also struck the right chord of confidence. Strong, competent professional.

No wonder Mary and James had handed him the keys to their building. D.D. imagined many female tenants and home owners would’ve gladly done the same.

“Riley Hayes?” she asked now, entering the room.

He nodded, not quite meeting her eye. Nervous, she thought. On the sketchy side of honest.

Then again, so were many people when summoned to HQ for official police questioning.

Carol Manley followed D.D. into the room, closing the door behind them. The room wasn’t that big; D.D. and Carol took a seat at the table, across from their person of interest, and there was just enough space left over to breathe.

Carol set down her mug of coffee. D.D. saw the man’s gaze flicker toward it, a reflexive inhale of wafting steam, but he didn’t say a word.

“You inspected a building last week.” D.D. rattled off the address while opening the file Manley had prepared on Hayes. D.D. skimmed the background report, noting a couple of traffic tickets, nothing of real interest.

Across from her, Hayes nodded. “That’s right.”

“How long have you been an inspector?”

“Six months.”

“Kind of young.” D.D. looked up. “Says here you originally trained as a fireman.”

“I was a fireman. Till I injured my back. On the job. Doctor’s orders transferred me to this.”

“Like the work?”

He shrugged, gaze on the table. “It’s a job.”

“Hayes Inspections. You own the firm?”

“My father. George Hayes. His company.”

She found that interesting. “How many buildings do you inspect a week?”

“Depends on the week. Some buildings, such as the Reichters’ place, aren’t that big, don’t take too long. Other properties . . . you can spend days.”

“Why the Reichters’ building?”

“Came up in the computer as overdue. City has a backlog right now, has hired firms such as my father’s to clear it.”

“So you were there because of the computer?”

He finally looked up, meeting her gaze for the first time. “You can call the Housing Inspection Division. What’s this about again?”

D.D. ignored his question. “According to the landlords, they couldn’t take you around the building. Too many stairs.”

“That’s right.”

“Instead, they gave you keys to the various apartments.”

Across from her, Hayes paused, seemed to be considering. “Did someone say they’re missing something? Is that what this is about?”

“I’m not interested in robbery,” D.D. informed him. “Not my department.”

Hayes frowned, appeared even more confused, which was right where she wanted him. “Anyone home in any of the units?” she asked.

“Yeah. As a matter of fact.”

“Who?”

“Woman. Third floor. I was going to put that in my report: She wouldn’t let me in.”

“Do you know her name, Mr. Hayes?”

“No. Wouldn’t say she was the kind of person inclined to chat. Didn’t seem to care much for city ordinances either.”

“She didn’t believe you were a building inspector?”

“I had to show her my ID. Twice.” First flicker of emotion on his face: annoyance. “Even then, she said she’d have to call in to confirm before I could enter.” He shook his head. “Some people.”

“Did she let you in?”

“No. When she called the department, no one picked up. Plus . . .” He hesitated.

“What?” D.D. prodded him. “Plus, what?”

“Her locks. She has multiple key-in, key-out bolts. I informed her those weren’t to code. In an emergency situation, they would impede the fire department’s ability to access her apartment.”

D.D. was intrigued in spite of herself. “And how’d she take that?”

“She informed me that fire was the least of her concerns,” he said dryly. “Then she ordered me to go away; she didn’t need any bureaucrats to teach her about safety.”